


I'll Be Good

by ooliblikas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Drug Addiction, Homophobic Slurs, Implied Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Recreational Drug Use, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooliblikas/pseuds/ooliblikas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich finds himself knee-deep in the trenches of adult-hood while coping with a debilitating drug-addiction. In a last ditch attempt to reconcile with his inner-demons and keep his ass out of prison for good, he joins a group-therapy program for drug addicts where he meets the enigmatic Ian Gallagher. The two perform a net-less trapeze act and Mickey learns that just because someone has hair the color of persimmons and a perpetually up-beat personality, doesn’t mean they aren’t tail-spinning out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey Milkovich had been standing outside of the emergency room front-entrance of St. Thomas Hospital for what felt like just short of an eternity. Mickey was attempting to make himself scarce, cigarette caught between his pursed lips where he inhaled sharply to blow smoke from his flaring nostrils. He surmised that he wanted to be anywhere but here, hell, he would’ve taken another three months of house arrest if he could. And yet, he made a promise to his parole officer that he’d clean his shit up. That, for once in his goddamn life, he’d make something out of himself that didn’t involve dirty-syringes and finite euphoria. At the thought, Mickey subconsciously dragged a hand down the side of his face where a groan escaped his throat. To occupy his intrusive thoughts, he stared out toward the parking lot where an ambulance was pulling into the oval-shaped drive-way. If it weren't for someone stepping in front of him and eclipsing his vision, he would've watched in mindless awestruck as a victim of an automobile accient was rushed in on a stretcher.

“Got a light?”

The question came from a red-head that towered him by only an inch or two, but he carried himself with such imposing ease that Mickey felt his masculinity recoil at the perceived threat. The man’s red hair reminded him of persimmons and it was slicked back with such finesse that Mickey wondered if the man was conjuring James Deans himself. Even the single strand of hair that continuously fell just off to the left of the man’s face seemed purposeful. In addition, his face was peppered in a solar-system of tiny freckles and his off-putting hazel eyes bore into Mickey’s blue ones with the intention of obliterating his existence with a single look. The red-head was an amalgamation of idealized American beauty and Mickey felt his jaw slacken when the red-head quirked his upper lip into a smirk.

Mickey thoroughly believed he intended to formulate words to answer the question, but they were pooling in his throat like congealing blood until breathing felt like swallowing golf balls, “Uh, yeah.” He finally concluded dumbly, neurons exploding throughout his central nervous system as he patted over his olive green bomber jacket before finally fishing out a lighter. When he flicked his gaze back towards the red-head, the man had a partially crushed cigarette dangling from his lips. When Mickey ignited the flame, the red-head leaned forward to light his cigarette, inhaling smoothly. More importantly, Mickey’s mouth turned to cotton as the man maintained focused eye-contact during the exchange.

Mickey rationalized that romanticizing other humans wasn’t exactly healthy, but it seemed to coincide with his overwhelming desire to self-deprecate until he was puking his own intestines out on the side-walk. He was perpetually disenchanted with his existence and, therefore, sought enchantment in the existence of other beings. It was a flawed existence, he realized.

“Visiting?” The red-head now side-stepped so that they were standing next to each other. Out of reflex, Mickey eyed the red-head as he raised his hand to drag fingers through his greased back hair. It was then that Mickey caught the sight of a hospital wristband and his brows furrowed together in curiosity. If the man caught him staring, he didn’t make any indication of it.

“Nah.” He answered shortly, jaw rolling in consideration as he contemplated whether he wanted to be honest about his circumstances, “therapy.” He concluded, deciding it was vague enough to run the gamut of drug-counseling down to chemotherapy treatment, “What about you?” Mickey cut him another side-ways glance, eyes flickering over his entirety as if studying an undiscovered species of the animal kingdom.

The man plucked the cigarette from between his lips where he exhaled smoke through partially puckered lips, eye-brow arching as if he was giving the same measured consideration that Mickey, himself, had given the question, “Same, I think.” Mickey surmised that it was a strange answer, but he had a feeling that the red-head wasn’t exactly  _normal_ , “Names Ian, by the way. Ian Gallagher.” The red-head reinserted the cigarette between his lips before sticking his hand out to Mickey.

“Mickey.” The answer lacked the formality that the red-head had tried to muster, but Mickey shook the hand nonetheless. It was the first time Mickey realized that Ian was wracked with rippling tremors that seemed to be birthed from unsteady hands. He’d seen those kind of tremors a dozen times over, but he bit back the desire to verbalize his findings.  

“Mickey.” Ian repeated, name rolling off his tongue as if he was savoring something sweet. It sent an involuntary tremble up Mickey’s spine, punctuated by the man’s overwhelming desire to rake fingers over the back of his neck. Ian didn’t seem to notice the discomfort, choosing to curl his upper lip into another smirk, “Thanks for the light, Mick. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.” The man snuffed out the cigarette bud before side-stepping Mickey again, walking backwards towards the hospital entrance.

Mickey bit his inner cheek at the nick-name, “Same to you,  _Gallagher_.” Mickey managed, averting his gaze from the red-head as if anything in the universe was as interesting as the red-head.

**\--**

Fifteen minutes after meeting Ian, Mickey found himself pacing holes into linoleum flooring while standing outside of a room that was marked ‘Conference Room 001’. The door was shut, single-window covered with yellowing blinds as a means of offering its occupants a sense of confidentiality and anonymity. More importantly, it meant that no one inside of the room could see him dissolving into an existential nightmare. Mickey sucked on his right-canine, occupied with muttering to himself underneath his breath. Knee-deep in his own inner turmoil, Mickey didn’t hear the clacking of heels until a hand gently clasped him on the shoulder. In response, Mickey jumped before immediately recoiling under the physical contact as if simple gesture held the ability to set his clothes on fire.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, hun.” The voice came from a plump, middle-aged nurse whose mouth was painted in a maternal grin, “You’re here for Dr. Anderson’s drug-rehabilitation program, right?” Mickey’s eyes darted around his surroundings, as if verifying that the woman was talking to him. He then realized that the woman had probably been watching him from the nearby nurse’s station which only sufficed in making his cheeks fluster with heat.

“Yeah.” He dragged out the word, brows knitting together more out of discomfort than confusion.

“Well, listen, you’ll be fine. Dr. Anderson’s a great-guy.” The woman encouraged, smile only seeming to grow. The nurse seemed genuinely concerned about his well-being, but Mickey was certain it was either well-rehearsed bedside manner or the result of him clinging desperately to maternal-figures out of reflex.

For the second time that day, Mickey found himself nodding dumbly, “Yeah, I know.” The man reasoned, rubbing at the back of his neck. He didn’t really know much of anything, to be fair. He’d only talked to Dr. Anderson once and that was over a phone-call where Mickey nursed a bottle of Grey Goose as a coping mechanism and tried to contain his desire to vomit up two-day old Chinese food and his self-respect all in the same sitting.

The woman merely smiled at him knowingly before turning away from him to finish making her rounds. With his previous thoughts of self-annihilation delayed, Mickey found himself opening the door with a click of the door-jamb.  

Inside, the room’s walls were an egg-shell white which contrasted violently with the off-colored furniture that littered the room. The carpet itself was a swirling mass of geometric patterns in Technicolor that Mickey decided was nauseating to look at. Only made worse by the hideous, and altogether tragic, macaroni-and-cheese colored couches that looked partially moth-eaten and uncomfortably lumpy. All of it bled together and Mickey found himself flirting with the idea of spontaneous combustion.

At the heart of the room was a cluster of people sitting in prayer-circle formation, but they weren’t praying. Most of the occupants wore a look of perpetual boredom and adorned the kind of self-aware posture that told Mickey they’d lived several dozen lives in their collectively short life-spans. He wondered if he looked as equally disenchanted. A brief scan of faces had Mickey swallowing spit before immediately sucking air between his teeth with a soft whistle the moment his eyes landed on none other than Ian Gallagher himself. 

The red-head in question was sitting next to a model-thin blond girl where both leaned into each other while quickly exchanging hushed whispers. Ian’s eyes flicked over to him then, shit-eating grin plastered on his face before he waved with the show of two fingers. Mickey found himself praying that the floor would open up with gnashing teeth to swallow him whole. It didn’t.

“You must be Mickey Milkovich!” At the head of the circle was a middle-age man who could have easily passed as Fred Rogers incarnate. He was smiling broadly at Mickey, gesturing with a wrinkled hand for Mickey to step in closer. Subconsciously, Mickey felt his upper lip curl into a sneer.

  
“Uh, yeah.” Mickey agreed, shrugging off his jacket before cautiously taking a seat in the only available chair which just happened to be diagonal of Ian’s seat. Everyone was craning necks to get a look at him, reminding him of a child-hood spent jumping between schools and neighborhoods. It was the kind of ‘under-the-microscope’ feel that no one ever got used to.

“New blood.” The blonde next to Ian giggled, drawing her unreasonably thin legs up onto the couch where she tucked them Indian style. She smiled with her teeth, eyes-narrowing to search over Mickey. She leaned into Ian once more who snickered in response before gently shoving her back with the bump of his broad shoulder. And, for a moment, Mickey wasn’t sure if he was stepping into a bastardized version of a Mean Girls script, or if he was being flirted with in the most enigmatic way known to man.

“Ms. Jackson.” Dr. Anderson drawled out the warning in the kind of despondent tone that told Mickey that the blond had a reputation for being a troublemaker, “Well, Mr. Milkovich, why don’t you tell us something about yourself?” The drug counselor pushed with considerable ease as he switched targets. Mickey watched with a pointed stare as the man leaned forward where his hands hung between his legs in a posture that Mickey was certain the man only sat in to look ‘hip’ with the current age-pool. In any other situation, Mickey might’ve snorted at the man’s futile attempts. However, with all eyes on him, Mickey quickly surmised that  _he_  was the seal bleeding out in shark-infested waters.

Mickey postured, dragging sweaty palms along his faded work-jeans, “Mickey Milkovich. Twenty-five.” He eased into it as if dipping toes into cold-water, “Heroin addict.  _Recovering_ , heroin addict.” Mickey added in an act of self-preservation.

After his last arrest, he’d submitted to the court-ordered rehabilitation program with the intention of actually getting better. He’d gone through the agonizing full-body spasms that let his skin with the sensitives of exposed nerve-endings and the fully-body aches that left his vision swimming in explosions of white. He’d sweated it out of his system until he was sure that he was perched at the gates of Hell begging for a warm bed. He’d put himself through the trials of heroin withdrawal and had survived by the skin of his teeth. Mickey reasoned that gave him the authority over the phrase ‘recovering addict.’

“Addicts don’t recover.” Ian bit in with the sort of self-righteous authority that had someone off to Mickey’s right sighing in exasperation. If Mickey wasn’t busy studying the way Ian’s jaw rolled when he spoke, he might’ve laughed in agreeance with the sigher.

“And what makes you say that, Mr. Gallagher?” Dr. Anderson leaned forward in his seat to make unnecessary eye-contact with Ian.

“Well,” Ian started, tilting his head with an arched brow, “You’re always itching for it, right? I mean, flash twenty years into the future and you’re married with two and a half children, white picket fence, and a paid off mortgage. You could graduate cum-laude from some prestigious university and make six figures, but in the darkest depths of your mind, you’re still itching for that high.”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably, including Mickey. The air became heavy, causing Ian to lean forward where his elbows rested on his knees and his cheek pressed against the knuckles of his right hand, “I’m just saying, you don’t ever  _recover_. You just make peace with the addiction.”

Mickey found himself agreeing with sentiment, even if he didn’t want to. Of course, he couldn’t fathom that Ian was talking about more than just his drug addiction.

And just like that, the focus was taken off of Mickey and placed onto Ian followed by a variety of other topics. Mickey found himself gradually loosening up as he cultivated a vague sense of first-names and social-structure. Some people volunteered to share their struggles, but there wasn’t much of a stressor on Mickey, or anyone, for that matter, to talk about any one thing. And before Mickey knew it, the session was over.  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 “Hey, ass face, open up!” The voice was high-pitched and feminine, and Mickey wasn’t sure if his sister, Mandy, was slamming on the door with balled fists, or driving the toe of her boot into the wood. At least until he was close enough to decipher between the two. When Mickey finally opened the door, he narrowly avoided getting punched in the face with an intended fourth knock. Mickey gritted his teeth as he stared at the petite girl before him who boasted jet-black hair which framed a porcelain face that was constantly mid-scowl and the kind of one-hand-on-the-hip disposition that put the fear of God in him, “It’s about damn time.” She spoke with the curl of her upper lip, shoving past him as if she owned the place.

“I thought we agreed no earlier than four.” Mickey grunted, sliding hands into his dark-grey sweatpants before toeing the door shut. Between his new job as a bartender and his decision to sign up as a part-time student at the nearby community college, his perception of time and space seemed elusive at best.

In response, the girl widened her eyes while snapping her gum at him, “It’s almost five, Mickey. You know, like, five in the afternoon.” She spoke pointedly, tapping on her bare wrist where a watch would be if she owned one, “Man, you’re such a spaz.” She rolled her eyes, “Anyway, get dressed there’s a party up in Ashford.”

Ashford was about a twenty minute drive from his apartment and existed as the proverbial watering-hole for the university students. It was a collection of town-houses and apartment complexes that had long ago surrendered themselves to the prospect of noisy college students and now rented out to them. Along with the university came coffee shops, bars, and the type of thrift-stores that catered to hipster-scum more than the poor.

“Who the fuck do you know in Ashford?” Mickey countered, following his sister into the kitchen where she promptly fished out a half-eaten bag of potato chips from the cabinet and propped herself up on the counter.

“I get around.” Mandy rolled her wrist at him, popping a chip into her mouth with a satisfied crunch.

“Don’t need to tell me twice.” Mickey snorted, earning himself a swift punch to the bicep. Mickey rubbed at the spot, cursing under his breath about ‘bony knuckles’ before initiating his daily-routine of making himself a cup of coffee.

“Shut the fuck up.” Mandy snapped, leaning forward to stick her tongue out at him, “Do you remember that Lip kid that I told you about?”

Mickey briefly considered the name while pouring coffee grinds into his one-cup coffee maker, “How can I forget someone who calls themselves lip?”

Mandy let out an exasperated sigh, “As if you can talk, Mickey-Mouse club.” To make her point, Mandy set the bag of chips off to the side before holding her hands behind her head, fingers spread as if to mock Mickey Mouse’s ears, “Plus, his name is Phillip.” She dropped her hands then, “Everyone just calls him ‘Lip.”

“Sounds like a real tragedy.” Mickey countered, ignoring the taunt, “So what about him?” He pushed, intrigue quickly depleting as he listened to the gurgling of his coffee-maker.

“So,” Mandy drawled out the word, “He goes to Ashford University and he lives off campus with his brother, or whatever. They’re throwing a party.” Mandy finished, seemingly gauging Mickey’s reaction as she chewed around chips, “And, I hear his brother is, like, super gay.” To illustrate her point, she held her hands up once more, fingers spreading and waggling in ‘jazz hand’ formation, “And single.” She finished with a coy wink that had stomach bile rising in Mickey’s stomach.

“That’s the exact opposite of convincing me.” Mickey snorted, taking a sip of his black-coffee where the liquid burned his throat as if declaring vengeance. Mickey had all but tip-toed out of the closest sometime between his father’s prison sentence and the first time some nameless, and horribly vapid, guy sucked his dick as if the action alone could cure child-hood leukemia. His sexuality was so painfully muddled that Mickey occasionally forget he’d ever came out in the first place. He’d spent his adolescent years dating flat-chested girls and drinking himself into a stupor before navigating the female anatomy with his penis. And now, internalized homophobia was so deeply ingrained in his genetic code that actually dating a guy seemed like a far off pipe-dream.

None of this, Mickey realized, stopped Mandy from playing match-maker, though.

“Come on, Mickey! It’ll be fun. You need to get out of this dump, anyway.” Mandy gestured to his modest one-bedroom apartment with a grin. It wasn’t a dump by any means, but it certainly had its section-eight south-side charm. The floor was solid, but the ceiling had started to rot in some areas from water damage. The walls were paper-thin, leaving him to, on more than one occasion, lob a shoe, or two, at the wall when his neighbors began screwing like rabbits. Worse than the rhythmic thump of head-board against wall, was that his neighbors emitted the kind of noise Mickey swore required a much-needed exorcism. Other than that, it contained all of the basic amenities and then some. Plus, it was his.

“Alright, alright. I’ll get ready if it’ll get you off my ass.” Mickey finally surrendered, tossing his hands up as if awaiting arrest before setting his empty coffee mug into the sink. He then ran fingers through his hair before walking back into his bedroom.

 

* * *

 

By the time Mickey was finished getting ready and the two siblings had smuggled food into their system, it was nearing eight when they finally arrived at the correct location. Mickey gripped the worn-out steering wheel of his beat-down monte-carlo as he watched in awestruck wonder as numerous drunk college students congregated on the lawn of a town-house that could’ve been superimposed over any of the apartments or houses in south-side and no one would’ve known the difference.

The whole neighborhood was a shit-hole where weeds threatened to swallow the decaying suburbs and empty beer-bottles decorated lawns like second-hand lawn ornaments. Before Mickey could fully comprehend that  _university_ didn’t stop one from being  _trailer-trash_ , Mandy was already out of the car. Mickey rolled his jaw, eyes-darting around his surroundings before he yanked his keys from the ignition and trailed after his sister.

Inside, the house was over-flowing with people who gyrated against each other with the intention of summoning Satan himself. The house reverberated with the beat of house-music that Mickey didn’t recognize and a haze of marijuana suffocated the oxygen from the house. As testament to the wasted-youth of his generation, a girl doubled-over to projectile vomit into the pot of a faux palm tree that had been unceremoniously shoved into a corner. Mickey wasn’t sure if he was looking at art, or the gates of hell.

It was only then that Mickey realized that Mandy has disappeared into the flush of human bodies, presumably to either find Lip or get herself a drink. Perhaps both. “Hey, I know you!” The voice sliced through Mickey’s deplorable social-anxiety and a delicate hand gripped at his bicep. In front of him, a familiar blonde’s eyes light up with recognition, “You’re new blood, right?”  

Up close, the girl was significantly less imposing, although something about the way she stared right through him left a sour taste on the back of his tongue. Her hair hadn’t been flat-ironed, but instead cascaded down her shoulders in beach-curls. She wore a white-crop top with the word ‘Nope’ sprawled out in looping cursive which complimented her black-legging and off-white keds.

“Mickey.” He finally corrected with minimal ease, steadily connecting the dots of his disjointed thoughts, “And I don’t think I caught your—“

“Karen.” She interjected hastily with an extended hand, slim gold-bracelet dangling off her too-small wrist. Mickey accepted the hand with an uncomfortable grin.

Mickey opened his mouth to force polite conversation, but was cut off when Karen bounced on the balls of her feet, waving an enthusiastic hand, “Ian,  _darling_!” The girl over-emphasized ‘darling’, drawing it out in almost sing-song fashion.

And it took Mickey all of a second before his stomach plummeted with realization. Behind him was Ian descending down the stairs, heavy combat boots creating a thud to spite the house music thumping around them. The red-head was shirt-less with leather pants that left little to the imagination and hung-low on his hips to expose a happy-trail that  led up to the dip of the man’s naval. Ian’s eyes were accentuated with eye-liner and his skin was dusted with gold-glitter that caught the light at all the right angles. To top it off, a crimson-red feathered boa was draped around the crooks of his elbows. On anyone else, Mickey would’ve laughed, but on Ian Gallagher, it was euphoric and nauseating all at the same time. Mickey was almost certain that staring at Ian for too long was the equivalent of being rocketed toward the center of the sun. Mickey swallowed once, and then twice, for good measure.

“Small world, Ole’ Blue Eyes!” Ian’s voice spilled over his words like molten-lava, but Mickey responded to the nick-name with a sneer.  Mickey surmised that a thousand reasons existed to be envious of Ian Gallagher, but the most important one was how agonizingly self-assured and comfortable he was with himself. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Ian oozed charisma and self-awareness. Mickey wasn’t sure if he wanted to place him on a pedestal, or pummel him into the floor-boards.

Before Mickey could formulate rational thought, let alone words, Ian was at his side to enclose the circle. Aside from Mickey himself, there’s no awkwardness. Ian and Karen swallow him as if they’re all long-time friends, “Have either of you seen Lip?”

Mickey snaps out of his trance-like state to furrow his brows together, “Wait, are you—“

“Mickey, there you are!” Mandy is yelling over the crowd, dragging someone behind her that Mickey only sort-of recognizes as Lip. Mandy gives a somewhat appraising look over Ian, recognition evident in the way the two smile at each other. Though, Ian’s smile seems more forced and Mickey can only assume it’s because Karen is glaring heatedly between Lip and Mandy, “This is Lip, and—“ Mandy glances between Ian and Mickey, connecting the dots with knitted brows, “Wait, you two know each other?”

“We met in group-therapy.” Karen cuts in, as if anchoring herself in the conversation. Though, Mickey notes, her friendly tone has soured.

“Oh, drug-addicts anonymous, right?” Lip is speaking with a beer-bottle pressed to his bottom lip. His tone is somewhat cutting, but it’s mostly dry. Lip then focuses on Mickey, eyes-scanning over him, “You’re Mandy’s brother, right?” The question is half-directed at Mickey and half-directed at Mandy.

“Yeah.” Mickey finally manages, rubbing at the back of his neck as the room seems suddenly suffocating and altogether claustrophobic, “I need a drink.” He finished quickly, not bothering to let the words sink-in before he’s turning on his heels and shuffling through the crowd. It’s as close as he can get to running away from the situation altogether, even if he doesn’t have a good reason to run from the situation in the first place.

 

* * *

 

After three cups of jungle-juice and too many cheap beers, Mickey finds himself bent over a toilet where he vomits just short of his vital organs. Heated stomach-acid burns up his spongy-esophagus in an attempt to declare war on his poor life-choice. He then spits into the toilet, saliva connecting between his mouth and the water in the toilet bowl. The thought of it makes him dry-heave again, spraying more spit and gunk into the toilet.

“There you are.”

The voice pours over him like honey and Mickey casts a side-eye glance towards the bathroom door where Ian is leaning against the door frame with a self-satisfied smirk. He’s wearing a sweater now that boasts the university’s logo and his eye-liner is smeared to the point that it paints his eye-sockets in a flush of blossoming lilacs. And Mickey’s puking again, stomach contracting painfully and black tad-poles swim across his vision.

“Man, you look like shit.” Ian slices in with little empathy, and while Mickey can’t see it from his head-in-toilet position, he’s pretty sure the man is speaking through a smirk, “Your sister’s been looking for you all night. We were gonna get a bite to eat.” Mickey recoils when a too-heated and gentle hand presses against the space between his shoulder blades. Out of reflex, Mickey dry-heaves to make his disapproval less obvious, “Think you can stop blowing chunks long enough to joins us?”

Mickey wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, head turning towards Ian with venomous intentions, but the words catch in his throat when he realizes the red-head is crouched next to him, faces only a few inches apart. From this position, Mickey reconfirms that Ian’s eyes are birthed from a nebula of swirling blue-green that intertwines violently with yellow specks. Even with smudged eye-liner and enough glitter to rival a strip-club, Ian’s undeniably handsome and Mickey is suddenly vomiting into the toilet for a completely different reason.

Ian snorts in response and stands where he disappears into the hall-way only to return with a washcloth that he rinses under the faucet and hands to Mickey. In turn, Mickey accepts it, but not before flicking his eyes between the red-heads black nail-polish and the dish-rag with a snort, “Thanks.” He spits into the toilet with finality before wiping his mouth clean and flushing the toilet.

Mickey then stands on shaky legs, head-pounding with the kind of ferocity that Mickey imagines his brain sloshing around his skull in a sea of left-over alcohol. His cheeks feel heated and Ian’s intense gaze doesn’t help sedate his nerves, but he maintains his composure purely out of pride, “Nice nail-polish.” Mickey taunts with slurring consonants.

 Ian smirks, inspecting his own nails in appraisal, “Want me to paint yours?”

Mickey couldn’t tell if Ian was being serious or not, so he pushed with his usual wit, “Oh, yeah. We’ll have a slumber party and you can braid my hair too.”

“You don’t have nearly enough hair for that.” Ian answers back smartly and they both laugh, “There’s a twenty-four hour diner a few blocks away, you down?” As if solidifying his point, Ian removes a set of car-keys from the confines of his sweater, twirling them around his finger.

Every fiber in Mickey’s being screams ‘no’. His ears are ringing and his head continues to pound like a jack-hammer against pavement. The idea of eating any kind of food makes his stomach clench, and yet, he finds it hard to say ‘no’ to Ian, “Yeah, whatever.” He manages, turning the sink back on to clean out his mouth with a handful of water.

* * *

 

When everyone piles into the car, it’s clear that Ian is the only sober one. If Mickey’s head hadn’t been pounding to the point of making him cross-eyed, he might have been more invested in that knowledge. Instead, all he could do was slump against the car door while pressing his forehead against the window. Next to him, Mandy and Lip are flirtatiously mumbling to each other to the point that Mickey finds himself getting nauseous all over again. There was a despondent ‘ew’ from Karen in the front seat, but no one seemed to be paying attention to her.

To Mickey’s surprise, the sun was just beginning to breach the tree-line, painting the sky in a kaleidoscope of swirling pastels. The south-side was starting to wake up in the way that minimum wage jobs force people to do the 9-5 tango. However, all Mickey could do with this newfound knowledge was firmly press his head against the glass while watching everything blur together outside of his window until he was convinced the world was still spinning even as they pulled up to the diner.

With a grunt, Mickey dragged fingers through his black-hair before wordlessly opening the car door and climbing out with sluggish ease.

And it all takes about twenty-minutes before Mickey is staring into the black-hole of a coffee-cup. While everyone is varying degrees of ‘eager-to-shove-food-in-gullet’, Mickey was content with his coffee and his coffee alone. He took a hesitant sip, consumed with the pleasant burn to the point that he didn’t notice Ian curling his upper lip in disgust, “How can you drink it black?”

“Mickey likes his coffee the way he likes his metal; _black_.” Mandy interjected, snickering at herself.

While it’s the kind of middle-school sentiment that would’ve made Mickey cringe if he were sober, he finds himself gesturing to his sister in agreeance.  

“Right.” Ian drawls, redirecting his attention out the diner window where the sun is finally looming enough to be a nuisance. It’s in that gesture that Mickey notes the blotches of deep-purple climbing Ian’s throat.

“Nice hickeys. Is that from Paul?” Karen teases with equal discovery, tentative fingers reaching out to pull the fabric of Ian’s sweater down to further reveal the markings.

 “Yeah, until he fried his brain with alcohol consumption and his dick went flaccid.” Ian retorted, batting the hand away before ducking out of the girl’s reach.

“Maybe you should’ve cozied up with Mickey instead.” Mickey snapped his gaze up to Karen, “Mandy here says he’s a big homo, too.” The blonde choose her words carefully, winking at Mickey while making faux-fellatio gestures with a balled fist and a tongue pressing into her cheek.

“The fuck Mandy?” Mickey snaps at his sister whose eyes widen to the size of saucers.

“The fuck Karen? I told you not to say shit.” Mandy snaps at Karen suddenly, who looks all too pleased with herself. Only, neither of the Malkovich siblings are coherent enough to pick up on it.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Ian cautiously interjects, eyes darting between Mandy and Mickey with mild distress, “No one here really cares.”

Mickey doesn’t look at Ian, eyes-trained on his sister, “Not the fucking point, _Gallagher_.” His temper flares, pitch raising, “I should be able to trust my sister to keep her fucking mouth shut.”

Mandy returned his heated glare, both siblings conjuring their birth-right as south-side thugs, “Grow up, Mickey. Dad is in prison and he can’t touch you _or_ fuck with your head anymore. You’re a god-damn _faggot_ and no one, except _you_ , gives a shit.” Mandy hissed, leaning over Lip who was caught in the middle of the two feuding siblings.

Mickey’s vision went white with rage as he slammed a balled fist onto the table, resulting in everyone at the table flinching except Mickey who stood, “Find your own ride home, Mandy.” Mickey walked towards the exit, pausing to flip over an unoccupied table as if to solidify his piss-poor temperament. He shoved open the door with a shoulder, disregarding the fact that Ian had driven them to the diner and deciding that walking the ten miles back to his car was better than spending another minute in the dinner.

In response to Mickey’s outburst, Mandy practically climbed over a partially stunned Lip to chase after her brother. Ian visibly trembled from the sudden display of hot-headed temperament, and Karen sucked on a chocolate milk shake from a straw before chuckling dryly, “Well, that went well.”

**Author's Note:**

> A Mini Soundtrack  
> I'll Be Good - Jaymes Young  
> Oceans - Seafret  
> Hunger of The Pine - Alt J  
> Atlantis - Seafret  
> Never Gonna Change - Broods


End file.
